Gordon Truth: Turnabout Resurgence
by Ioniclunch
Summary: Weakened and vulnerable attorney Mike Angelo prosecutes Raley Vian's killer with the help of an old mentor, while Gordon Truth must come to terms with his past in order to save those close to him. OC story, will confuse if you haven't read the third case.
1. Chapter 1

Well, that took a while.  
Hello everyone! Knowing that it has been so long since my last story, whoever you are reading this story, you probably have never heard of the Gordon Truth: Ace Attorney series. It is a fanfiction that has reached over 85,000 words and stretches as long as 279 pages on a normal word document. There have been three cases so far, and if you want to read this fourth one (which I must say, is the best of the bunch so far) you absolutely have to, HAVE TO read the first three Gordon Truth cases. If you continue without knowing at the VERY LEAST the amazing plot twist at the end of the thrid case, you will be absolutely bewildered at what the hell is going on below you.

This story is worth the time though, trust me. Each chapter is supposed to be structured like the actual game. Many times ending at find-the-right-evidence cliffhangers akin to those found in the ace attorney series. So please invest your reading time to this series, there may be a ton of content to read, but I'm sure and I hope you enjoy it.

If you have read at least the ending chapter of the third case, then please, go on ahead and enjoy if you can.

IONICLUNCH

--

"Sir?"

Mike Angelo looked up front his desk, leaving an oily stain on the glass surface. Slowly he stood; his wrinkled and smudged suit trying awkwardly to straighten with the space he was giving it. He gave the visitor his best smile, which looked more like a grimace, and motioned for him to sit down.

"It's about the Vian case sir."

Of course it was, the last two weeks of his life had been all about the Vian case. Everywhere he turned the deceased family name followed like a spreading mold on his office wall. He flipped folder after folder, each holding pages of the same names and dates and profiles. He was sick of it, and he was sick of everything to do with it.

He sighed slowly and wound his hands together in front of him, back hunched against his chair. How could he have expected this visit to **not** have anything to do with that accursed trial? No, it was a foolish hope. That was another word going through his mind recently. Foolish.

This man in a suit, his visitor, knew of his sour mood. His name was Rhett Haply, and the air of depression and hopelessness had grown contagious around the offices of acclaimed prosecutor Michael C. Angelo. For example, Rhett hadn't bothered to shave or comb when he got up today; he knew his employer would not care, for he had yet to shave or comb himself ever since the trial.

"What about the Vian case?" said Mike in a voice that wasn't his own, but one of a more aged, impatient man whose apathy had taken hold of him.

"They've set a trial date for the suspect of the murder." Rhett was unsure how this news would be taken. For the last two weeks, Mr. Angelo had reacted strangely to things. He would blink at the most horrid of news stories and accusations and throw things in rage at the simplest mention of smaller matters. Thankfully, he was not reacting toward the latter. He blinked and reached out to grab whatever papers Rhett had been asked to deliver to him.

"I don't have anything on paper." Rhett said to the open hand. "It's a simple request from the head prosecutor."

"Intriguing," said Mike Angelo, who sounded as if they were two strangers making meaningless small talk. "What is this request?"

Rhett was feeling uncomfortable at the unblinking gaze of his employer, who had hunched lower on his desk, his folded hands hiding his obvious frown. "T-they want you to prosecute."

Mike had not been expecting that. His eyes showed genuine surprise and he sat back, revealing his expression of suspicion. "It should be pretty obvious that I cannot." He said simply. "The last time I was in court the victim of this current event was shot in the head and killed. I also saw the person who did it. And that person has been walking in and out of my nightmares as conveniently as if he were walking in and out of a barber shop." He let his own bizarre words sink in, his mind flashing wildly.

Rhett had been instructed on how to respond to any sign of a refusal, but his memory was starting to wane as his employer stood from his desk and walked to his office window; muttering to himself and staring into the congested streets below.

"The thing is, you're right." Mr. Haply started. "We are all well aware of your involvement, and we have pulled strings to insure that the prosecutor in this case be the finest the city can offer, due to the high profile and unstable conditions of the crime." He checked back on his words. He sounded very official, almost superior to the man pacing in front of him; which he thought might have been a mistake.

"Then why are you coming to me?" Mr. Angelo stated, looking to his ceiling. "I was once a great prosecutor, but I was never the best. And even now in what is to be the defining depression of my career, I'm still being called to prosecute when I want nothing more to do with this whatsoever?"

He was becoming more vicious, his pace quickened and his voice sharpened. He was clenching his arms behind his back and muttering more profusely. Rhett was beginning to doubt the decisions of the head prosecutor himself. This was no longer a brilliant attorney; this was a deranged madman plummeting ever deeper into insanity.

"We weren't going to put you on this case. Believe me, it was the farthest thing from our minds." He was sounding too official again; he bit his tongue before continuing, "We originally were going to put another prosecutor on the case, a rather famous one. But he refused."

"Refused?" This was a very high profile case. Any prosecutor in his right mind (which Mike Angelo wasn't) would kill to have authority over it. "Why would he?"

"Because he knows of you, and made specific mention of your name. He said he would only be involved if you were."

Mike sat down, suppressing an urge to throw something. This conversation was becoming more and more mentally exhausting. "Who is this person," he clenched his hands together until they almost became white. "Who would make such a condition?"

"Your old mentor," said small, unimportant Rhett Haply, "Mr. Miles Edgeworth."

--

Gordon Truth shivered in the warmth of his small, stuffy apartment. The bed of the prestigious defender was covered in all manners of sheets and comforters of conflicting patterns, tightly wound against the frail body squeezing his eyes shut under the pressure of two pillows stacked above his head. The room was dark and the blinds had been covered with fabric, blocking all sunlight. His alarm clock had long since been disconnected hours before when Gordon yanked it out of the wall and threw it into his closet, desperate for no amount of light to touch him. His door showed attempts of being boarded before someone had given up and decided that locking and bolting the door had been good enough. He was half-tempted to call Judy Ryut, who had suffered because of a similar situation before. But he decided against it. Judy, it seemed, had grown unimportant. She was not his, she was never his, and the only relevance she ever had was in his past. He had forced himself to forget about her.

Forgetting his sister, Clara Truth, had been impossible, for she was directly relevant and most at risk for attack. Before he had retreated into his room, he called the taxi service, instructing them to take her back home to her parents at once. It might have been the most painful thing in his life to watch his sister literally being dragged out of the doorway, desperately trying to stay with her brother. But her tears and screams failed to register with him. He could only sit on the couch and watch, half-heartedly with drooping eyelids as Clara kicked several men and broke several of his things in rejection of his sending her away.

He had turned off his phone, unplugging it and destroying it. He had permanently gotten rid of his cellular by disassembling it and flushing the parts down the toilet. His computer lay forgotten with a shattered monitor and frayed wiring in the corner of his room, where it sat quietly beyond all repair.

At last he had accomplished the goal of being completely and totally alone. And it was killing him.

He was not alone in his thoughts, however. In his mind he was a bartender at what looked like a small, old west saloon in Nevada. He gazed around the wooden building, it felt very real. He knocked on the wooden counter, feeling the slight pain, feeling the texture of the wood. He nodded, he must have fallen asleep. He was dreaming.

He had once looked forward to the day when he realized he was dreaming. Lucid Dreaming, he had researched, was when one could control everything in the dream when they became aware that they were dreaming. He had thought about what would happen if one night he finally found out his night-time stories were unreal and completely up to him to refine and shape. But he did not call into being a roller-coaster ascending into space, a cape or a city to protect for a few hours, or even a beautiful woman whose face and features were limited only by his imagination. He desired none of those things. He desired to be alone, but his heart desired something else. He turned to his right to find his heart standing next to him in the saloon; arms folded over the counter-top, wearing a ball cap with no team's name on it. His heart nodded to him and said. "You need closure."

Gordon nodded, suddenly realizing that he had a very nice handlebar mustache and brown leather vest to compliment his new western setting. "I guess you're right." He said, his voice filtered through what seemed to be a mandatory 19th century old western drawl.

At those words his heart nodded and vanished, leaving behind a bottle. Gordon looked at the label on the bottle, which read "the past". He left it there, for he feared what was inside it.

The doors to the saloon flew open as a rather tall, muscular figure in an overblown cowpoke sombrero dramatically stepped inside. He had wavy blond hair and twinkling blue eyes, complimenting his slightly dirty jeans. He sauntered to the counter where Gordon was standing and took off his hat so Gordon could recognize him. It appeared the first step to closure, the thing his heart wanted so badly, was to talk to his old friend and colleague, Mike Angelo.

Angelo rested his boots under the counter and spun the spurs on his left. He smiled at Gordon and said. "I'd like some 'the past' please."

Gordon somehow knew what that meant. But as he reached for the bottle his heart had left Mike waved him off. "Not that damned bottle you dad-gummed eejot. It's been opened, I don't wanna be drinkin' some other folk's backwash."

Gordon smirked at the corny dialogue. He instinctively reached under the counter and found another bottle of "the past". He casually handed it to his friend and watched him open it and take a long swig.

Mike made a satisfied, pleasing sound as he finished the bottle in one gulp. "Friend, you have no idea how much I needed that." He smiled and flipped him a nickel. "Why don't you have one on me?"

"Naw, you know I caint be drinkin that bottle there Mink. Blasted stuff's too strong for this cowboy." He smiled wider at his own dialogue. It was a wonder this was all coming from his imagination.

"Well, one day you'll realize you need this stuff," said Mike, who apparently was called Mink in this dream. He slid his bottle aside and asked for another, which Gordon supplied.

"Lookie here Gord'n." said a slightly tipsy Mink. "What happened wasn't your fault."

For a second Gordon didn't know what to make of that. The truth hit him like a bullet. He had almost forgotten this was a dream, and the problem outside of it that was causing him to shut himself in.

"Mink, you know as well as aye do that I shore 'nuff killed that girl wit my own two hands." At a loss of what to do, Gordon picked up a small glass and started wiping the inside with a wet rag. "I'm the one who told her to testify. It's my own dad-gummed fault she's dead."

"Sumin' tells me that girl woulda ended up dead whether you told her to testify 'r not Gordon." Mink took another swig of his third bottle of "the past" and swallowed with some difficulty.

"Well, maybe yer right," said Gordon, although he didn't believe it. He looked at the bottle of "the past" his heart had left. For some reason it pained him to even look at it. He turned away, thinking about the musty taste of it. "This has happened before you know."

"Course I know. I was there weren't I?" Mink shook his blond mustache uncomfortably on his lips, as if he wasn't used to it. "I helped you find the truth, you were a hero you know."

"Yeah, for how long." The taste in his mouth was bitter and strong, as if he were drinking something foul. He glanced at the bottle again with a sneer of hatred. "I ended up hurting everyone close to me."

"Wudn't your fault, pardner." Said Mink, tipping his hat. "It was that black-haired varmint with them fancy clothes."

Before Gordon could inquire what he meant by that, Mink flipped him two more nickels and left his stool. "I'm gonna go rest over there at that table. Wake me if you need me."

A small poker table with a maroon fabric ring on the edges materialized in the back corner of the saloon. Over it was a tin sign on the wall bearing the words, "the present". As Mink entered the light radiating by a primitive light hanging by a wire above the table, his old west clothes melted away, replaced with an orange jacket and a white t-shirt. And as he sat, a very strange and un-Mikeish sour expression intruded on his face. He quickly put his face down and covered it with his arms. Gordon continued wiping his glass.

Mike Angelo didn't seem to have a lot to say. He understood it though, despite him being the prosecutor of the Vian case and his small involvement with the past (something that he seemed to think he really needed), he didn't have much of anything to do with his present problem. He couldn't deny it was comforting to be reassured by an old friend, however. He turned to his right, and found that his heart had returned.

"Is that enough?" he asked his heart.

"Maybe. No. It could be," said his heart without moving his lips, "you have another customer."

Gordon hadn't realized it, but another person had found his way into the saloon. He was wearing an old-timely business suit, complete with black bow-tie and bowler hat. His mustache was curled at the ends, like an old gentleman in a silent movie. His grey eyes met Gordon's and he sighed. "How ya doin' boy?"

It was the voice of his old mentor, Benjamin Bell, his face almost unrecognizable under a large monocle over his right eye. Gordon gasped and almost bowed before catching himself.

"Back from the dead, Billy Bell?" he heard himself say.

"Not quite yet, son. Not quite yet." He hunched over the counter, something was definitely on his mind. "Can I have a bottle of 'the past' please?"

Gordon handed him one, but as soon as the bottle was in Bell's hands, he hoisted it by the neck and smashed it on the edge of the counter top. Glass flew everywhere and the bitter liquid splashed and sprayed all over the two men. Gordon jumped back, "What the hell is wrong with you!?"

"Why don't you just calm yerself down there," said Billy Bell. He took out a glass and poured himself a bit from Gordon's heart's bottle of the past. As he set the bottle back down, he brought out a gun with his other hand and took another swig, pointing the gun nonchalantly at Gordon.

"W-what…" but Gordon was at a loss for words.

"Calm down, I said," he took another swig. "Don't you know I've been appointed as this town's new sherrif? This gun ain't fer you, son. Just keeping it out so's not to be bothered by any rascally types."

Gordon found himself breathing too hard. He relaxed to slow his heart rate and continued wiping his glass. "What the hell are you doing coming into muh saloon and breakin' my here bottles? Lot's o' people really want this stuff and I caint have anyone, even 'Sherrif's' doing anything crazy like."

"I just can't stand the stuff Gordon," said Benjamin, "at least not my own. Yours seems to be doing me alright though." He took another sip from his glass and rubbed his mustache.

Gordon felt suddenly defensive of his own past. He took the bottle, still about half full, and placed it on the shelf behind him, even though it burned when he grasped it. "Judgin' by yer current behavior, I'd say you had 'nuff, sir."

Billy Bell leaned back. "It's not easy being where I am right now. Sherrif? Damn it son, the last thing this place here needs is someone like me in charge. Didn't they know I'd screw it up?"

A note of desperation hit his voice and he grasped Gordon by the collar of his shirt. "Didn't they know I would? I hate 'em, every last one of 'em! And they appoint me as sherrif! It's a god-damned insult! I caint even do anything about my brother! He's dead, and I know they were the ones who did 'im in! And I have to ANSWER TO THEM!"

He slumped back into his stool, obviously groggy, eyes beginning to droop. For the first time in his life Gordon felt pity at his once great mentor. The one who could never lose a case, the incorruptible defense attorney Benjamin Bell, his partner and friend, reduced to this. But that was the question, wasn't it? What was this? What exactly had his colleague been reduced into?

"You lost that case on purpose," said Gordon. He put his glass and rag down and stood both his arms upright on the counter, leaning forward slightly. "The one where you had to defend someone suspected of being a member of NYM. You threw the case."

"I know, I know… it was stupid of me. Stupid." Benjamin almost toppled off of his stool, he held himself up by gripping the counter top with his palms and wrapping his legs around the stool pole.

Gordon looked at his missing friend. "I bet NYM didn't like that, huh? That's why you went missing after that case."

"Yer getting there." Billy Bell winced his eyes and raised his left brow. "You better stop though, if you keep going this way you might find a certain truth you would be better off not knowing…"

But before he could say another word, Billy Bell toppled off his chair and made a loud noise as his shambling body hit the hard wooden floor. Gordon's eyes flew open and he hopped over the counter to tend to his customer.

"Partner! Are you okay? Are you feeling alright?" He slapped his cheek, trying to get up to come to. "Hello! Wake up!"

The man underneath him coughed and bubbled at the mouth. "Table…" he said. "Table." He pointed at the lit-up area where Mike Angelo was sitting and coughed again. Gordon nodded and picked Benjamin up by the shoulders. He noticed while he was dragging the limp body of his partner toward the present that he could smell the hideous stench of his own past on his breath. He threw him down on the floor next to the table under the light, where his old-timely business suit melted away. It was replaced by a more modern grey suit, bunched around his armpits and stained with blood. His fancy mustache became a much dirtier and unkempt one. The kind of mustache formed when one doesn't shave for weeks. Gordon left him there and returned to his counter-top, picking up his glass and rag once more. He glanced up at the limp body of his mentor and noticed that rusty shackles had former around his legs and wrists. He discounted it and continued cleaning.

Benjamin Bell had been his new best friend. He had found Gordon as soon as he graduated law school and passed the bar, almost immediately inviting him to partner. Gordon had seen it as his big break, his one shred of god-given luck that would catapult him away from his horrible past life and friends and conflicts. But apparently, it was not to last. After his second case Benjamin Bell had vanished, becoming a topic of gossip and suspicion among the rumors of his throwing his first and only NYM case… He had become just another one of those affected by Gordon's curse, the curse that affected anyone close to him. The same curse affecting him since he had stepped into high school. He stole another glance at his bottle of the past on the shelf behind him and almost understood why Benjamin had ordered one, if only to destroy it. Apparently Benjamin wasn't his deliverance from his past at all. In fact, from what Gordon could tell from his scent, he was covered with it.

Gordon's heart returned, this time wearing strange makeup resembling a member of some forgotten glam rock band from the 80's. It looked at him and said "sup".

"I don't know," answered Gordon. "I don't understand this dream at all. I think I might like a rollercoaster or pirate ship instead. This has gotten too painful."

"I understand, this seems like enough," said his heart thoughtfully. It looked at the ceiling in deep concentration. "I think I've got enough closure."

But before Gordon could change his surrounding into something more pleasant, the doors of his saloon were flung open again, and this time it wasn't a friendly visitor. He was gripping a desert eagle in each hand and wore a red bandana over his mouth, which wasn't hiding the fact that he was smiling. His black hair laid untidy without a hat upon it and his vest held the title of 'governor' stitched onto the chest. He was, compared to the others, the most fancily dressed. His neat shirt was finely tucked into his belted church pants, the buckle carrying three letters neatly threaded into it, 'NYM'.

"Hands up, Gordon Truth."

Gordon let the glass slip and shatter beneath him as his arms shot upward, the familiar stranger coming closer and closer. "Your dream has just become my greatest nightmare."

"Hold it."

Both men at the table stood up, the light had gone out and they both returned to their old western wardrobe. Mike Angelo stepped forward, his mustache whistling left and right under his sombrero. "This here is my friend, and if I must say y'all have ta go through me if you wanna get ta him."

"Do-able," said the black-haired varmint with the fancy clothes as he shot the man with his left gun. Mink obviously had not respected such a sudden attack and his eyes flew open. He dropped to his knees slowly, bending backwards until his balance was lost and his body careened to the floor, his knees snapping sickeningly. Billy Bell gasped and jumped in horror at the newly deceased body next to him, turning wildly to face the attacker.

"You, but the governor…"

"I'm the governor now," said the stranger with the heaviest accent yet. "The old one stepped down after I did some 'persuadin'."

Billy Bell drew his gun, but Gordon could not have ever guessed that Benjamin would point the gun not at the enemy in front of them, but directly at Gordon himself. Sweat poured off his friend's face and his hand shook with franticness but his grip remained steady. Gordon's mouth hung open, all other parts of his body becoming numb with fear and shock.

"Wha-, but… Ben…"

"I can't do anything about it. Sorry Gordon, but I answer to the governor and the governor only…"

"What are you doing!? I'm your friend, your partner! We've been working together for years!"

"You think I can do anything about it! He has my brother!"

Gordon's bewildered expression flipped from one stranger to the other. "But, you said your brother was dead!"

"He's as much as dead, the state he's in now!" said the darkly dressed governor with a burst of laughter. "And he'll be dead within minutes if Billy Bell here don't do as aye say! So now, why don't you prove your loyalty to me and shoot your best friend here so he don't be meddling in my affairs no more!"

"No, Ben, don't."

Gordon didn't have time to blink. The bullet plunged directly into his heart, piercing his lungs and shattering his rib cage. He watched helplessly as his heart withered and died, it hadn't disappeared like it was supposed to, and now it had been killed. He kneeled down beside it and saw its last breath.

"Gordon!"

All three men jumped. The doors flew open again and another person walked inside. He was a figure gleaming in light and beautiful in all ways imaginable. The brightness cast by it reflected on all three men and they all melted away until they were replaced. Gordon looked down and saw his brown suit sticking to his body drenched in sweat, Benjamin was kneeling on the floor, hands shaking, biting his knuckles and squeezing his eyes shut, and the villain, whose bandana had long fell away, began to scream in pain.

"Gordon! Drink the bottle! Save yourself, save Mike, for god's sake, save Ben!" yelled the angle. Gordon flung himself around to face his past, the bottle becoming wider and wider until he could fit an entire house in it. He glanced once more at the figure behind him, his savior, his last hope…

The face of Theodore Bell gleamed at him, the long crusty hair browned and withered. The same face plaguing his dreams for all these years. Gordon nodded and, with some difficulty, plunged himself into the giant bottle, drowning his lungs with bitterness until his vision went blank.


	2. Chapter 2

Rhett Haply was small and unimportant, at least he thought so. Single his whole life; living without a family; friends he could count on one hand and a depressingly dull job. He regretted attending law school for four months before dropping out, only to settle for a petty office job amongst those he once aspired to be. It was not happy to be Rhett Haply.

He sighed and placed his feet on the prosecution bench, his faded and too-short denims pants hard to make out in the darkness of the unlit courtroom. He stroked his fuzzy goatee he had accidentally grown (and became quite fond off) as he jangled his keys in his hands. Visiting courtrooms at night had become a ritualistic activity in Rhett Haply's rather sad life, for he found his presence there peacefully ironic. A room usually so full of tension and noise and feeling completely empty and free, it was his paradise.

Which is why he reacted with such angry surprise when door shot open and the lights flew on.

Momentarily blinded, he raised his arm in front of his face as the ceiling bulbs became like spotlights flashing in a high security prison. The moment passed and he flew up off his chair; clutching his empty briefcase like a weapon while his overbite shined through his lips as he pulled them back. "What the hell do you think you're doing? It's after hours you know!" he cried with a very slight British wisp to his speech.

"I'm sorry."

He did not recognize the intruder, for he had a very large jacket and a hat he wore too low on his head, almost intentionally covering the top half of his face. He entire being radiated stealth, this was not a person who wanted to be noticed, much less talked to.

"I need to use the Mason System. It's very urgent."

Rhett was astounded by the absurdity of this conversation that he felt he could slap himself in the face and do a professional back flip without this intruder blinking an eye. Lost for words for several beats, he finally found the phrase "Who are you?"

"I'm afraid to tell you. I'm sorry if this is… strange but I really need access to the Mason System."

The man looked down to his left, deep in thought and possibly at conflict with himself. He did not speak again.

"Look… I'm not supposed to tell you this…" Rhett looked up again at the lights of the courtroom, wishing them to once again become dark. "You need a access card or a code or something…"

He looked up and the figure was beside him. He was tempted by his instincts to jump away in fright but his tired and dull body did not receive the message. The man held a card in front of his face. On the card was a phone number, a code, a picture and a name. The phone number was 555-872-9137. The code was 374-94-4342, the picture was that of a very young but professional-looking brown-eyed man with uncomfortable long hair that reached his shoulders, and bushy eyebrows. The name on the card was…

Before he was finished the card was shoved back into the stranger's coat pocket. Rhett nodded awkwardly. "Well, ok."

The Active Memory Selector and Order Nexus System (AMSONS, more commonly known as MASON System to appeal to a wider audience of researchers) lay dusty and forgotten in a very dark and empty room. The door creaked with lack of use and the two people wandering inside bumped and hit and tumbled around various components and pieces of the large machine surrounding them before one found a light switch.

To simply write details about the Mason System could never portray the horrible magnificence and terrible beauty of the ugly and brightly radiating mechanical abomination of science and technology that lay twisted and entwined across the entire lower level of the city courthouse. Rhett was uncomfortable in this scary room, the center of the machine rose in front of him, the appearance of a bizarre space ship with tiny twinkling lights spider webbed across one large circular chair, where the host would sit, almost nauseated him. The screen behind it, larger than any other television in the world, raising to the ceiling, stretching in a circle around the host, facing the empty seats where a jury would sit, he would not give a second thought if the entire thing was destroyed the next day, something about it and its purpose felt undeniably wrong.

The Mason System was built to be the savior of the flawed and messy system of law and order. Instead of having criminals tried and argued ceaselessly about their guilt, how easy would it be to simply hook them to a machine and broadcast their memories to the jury? Let the defendant be his own witness, his own defender, his own prosecutor by the memories of his crimes and ill-gotten secrets mined and extracted from the host. No more lengthy appeals and technicality defenses and tongue-in-cheek lies by men in suits. People could be found guilty or innocent in the space of twenty minutes or less.

Only two of these machines existed. This one was the first, the prototype, the experimental dosage of the future. There was another on the other side of the country in sunny California, a more deluxe model that was smaller and cleaner. However, after the system was tested, no more were ever constructed.

The scientists were baffled at the initial test trials. The memories projected were at the mercy of the host, and the frustrated memory researchers went berserk trying to make the machine show them memories that the criminals encased inside did not want them to see. The host decided which memories could be shown, and if the host concentrated hard enough, memories could even be changed on route to their broadcast. While this made the machine possibly inaccurate, there was another problem. Test audiences were erratically disturbed at the inhumanity of the system and the violent reactions of hosts revisiting troubled memories. Soon no respectable juror wanted near the nightmare machine, the scientists were shamed, millions of tax payer money had to be hastily patched, adding to a growing economic problem, leading to more and more crime and death. The project was scrapped, the documents destroyed. The machines left standing only for their stature and expense.

I stood in front of the circular chair, an ominously bizarre looking suction device attached to the head. Taking off my hat and coat, I walked up to the station and sat down, every cell in my body willing me to run away from this unholy device.

"Thank you, that's all I need. You can go now."

I looked around the dimly lit room, but my friend had already disappeared, perhaps back to the sanctity of the dark courtroom. It did not matter, I had to get this over with.

There were switches on the armrests of the station (I called them armrests because they were naturally built to hold the prisoner's arms, but they were made of cold steel bars that hurt to press your skin against. This device was not built for comfort). I flipped the caps off both to see red flashing buttons underneath. I was unsure, the research I had read before this venture were not descriptive, and I could only guess how this machine could be operated. I pressed my thumbs against both buttons at once, knowing instantly that I had done the right thing. The circular plastic container around the chair closed and constricted, forming a more egg-like shape. Electric strands flowed and ebbed around the surface, blur and red/orange contrasting until it pained my eyes. The noise was becoming almost unbearable, my chair shook violently. I spun my eyes around in terror, had something gone wrong? What sounded like a siren blazed in my ears, lights flashing inside my closed eyelids.

Suddenly everything went dark, the sound quieted to a low rumble. I opened what felt like my eyes and I saw a orange and blue disk in front of me spelling out the words MASON, it was a hologram broadcasting inside the egg. I reached out my hands to touch it, and it spun. My head began to burn and my vision retched as the machine rung in my brain.

It was finally time to revisit the past.

---

_Seven Hours Earlier_

_---_

"Rhett?"

Mike continued to hold the button on the speaker attached to his desk. He spoke into it again. "Rhett? Are you there?"

"Uh… yeah, I'm here."

Mike was surprised, Rhett wasn't usually the one to hang around after the end of his shift at six. He held the button down again. "You're still here?"

Rhett rolled his eyes. He had neglected visiting the courtrooms for the whole week, which was too long. He was finally going to do it today. He'd wait for everyone to leave; sneak into the large brass doors and perhaps nod off for a few hours. He was looking forward to it.

"I'm staying behind today. Catch up on some stuff."

"That's good," said Mike with no real interest. "Listen, I need to know more about my meeting with Miles…"

Rhett Haply could never dare to use his first name like his boss was able to. Prestigious and professional, Miles Edgeworth was a name to be used lightly, feared, and respected, in that order. Mike angelo may have an exuse, they were both buddies, but Rhett doubted their relationship, as well as the prosecutor himself. Miles Edgeworth was an enigma to anyone using logic. A colifornia attorney known (and sometimes hated) for his ruthless tactics in court. Somewhere along the line he softened, doubting his own career and becoming intwined in his own world. Somehow, stories of his success still rang all around the world. Rhett bit his teeth together, Edgeworth was a step above average law. Hell, how many prosecutors go **on tour**? That wasn't really an accurate way to describe Mr. Edgeworth's travels around the country, but it was Mr. Haply's way of silently poking fun at the sacred figure.

"What do you need to know?"

"We're meeting today to discuss the case, correct?"

"Right…" he sipped his coffee. He hated it, but he had grown used to it after six years. "And…?"

"Where exactly are we meeting? He has an office in California, but he doesn't expect me to travel across the country does he? I mean, that's **his** shtick, you know?"

Rhett pressed the button to reply, but he suddenly found himself at a loss for words. In front of him, wearing the too-fancy red suit with white ruffles protruding from the chest where a tie should be; Miles Edgeworth stood beside the desk, coffee in hand, court files in the other. He eyes met Rhett's, who found his lip quivering.

Mike heard a frightened squeak come out of his speaker before it went offline. _What is wrong with that man? I swear he's going to get a violent review next week. _Mike flung his orange jacket over his shoulder, putting his arms in the sleeves. He had neglected to wear it for weeks, the bright colors souring him. However, today felt more optimistic. But before he could stand from his desk, his office door opened.

"You're late."

Miles Edgeworth stepping into his office. A man with precise and proper posture, with the familiar wave in his smooth brown hair. Mike could tell from his voice that he still had the somewhat annoying almost-a-foreign-accent-but-not-quite ring about his words. His tone feeling almost English but his grammar and words still distincly American.

Mike stood transfixed. "W-what? I'm not late, you are."

"Ah, but Miles Edgeworth is never late. Others are simply late for him," said the famed prosecutor, waggling his trademark finger near his head.

Mike needed a good laugh. So when he and Miles sat in their respective chairs in his office trading stories of the last few years, he made sure to do a lot of it. After a few minutes, the chatter dies down and Mike asked for his secretary to grab him and his guest another coffee.

"How was the thirtieth birthday?"

Miles chucked, absentmindedly pulling at his full goatee. "In a word, depressing. I was very busy on an important case in Washington. It was nightfall, very late and I was studying the case specifics like my life depended on it, and let me tell you, the exposure of that case, my life pretty much did depend on this verdict."

He and Mike both laughed again.

"I looked at my computer screen and glanced the date, I hadn't even realized that my birthday was close, much less that very day." He laughed again to himself. "Not my best birthday, but definitely not the worst. I found something on that night that got me the deserved verdict."

Mike and Mr. Edgeworth had developed a long standing friendship after Miles had taken refuge in New York after a few years of traveling the globe. They had both been invited to meet the high prosecutor at the same time, an accident with scheduling. They both waited in the office for approximately three hours. In that time they had become great friends, Miles taking Mike under his wing several times in court since then.

"And how is your associate? The one who got his attorney's badge revoked?"

Miles coughed, "From what I hear, he's scraping by. He adopted a daughter too, against all odds. I've met her briefly, very charming." He took another sip of coffee, setting the now empty mug on the desk. "Well that's enough catching up. We have a lot of business to talk about."

"I agree," said Mike, even though a sudden migraine begged him to hesitate. "Let's talk about the Vian court killing. I'm sure you've been told who the defendant is?"

"Of course," said Edgeworth, clearing his throat. "Tell me more about Roger Watcher."


	3. Chapter 3

Did the machine work? Was I alive? I felt my body; I concentrated on my throbbing headache… Was I alive? My answer, maybe.

In bed, strange charcoal colored sheets, milk chocolate comforter, no pillow. I wiggled my feet. I couldn't feel them, but they moved about and twitched obediently. I threw off the covers, dangling my legs over the side of the bed.

A room, a desk, a door. The walls were dark gray/blue, the wall behind the bed was a bright brown color. Cabinet, large. Computer, old. Lamp, ordinary.

There was something familiar about this place.

I stood; wrong, I fell back down backwards. Obviously, it was going to be hard to maneuver.

"What's going on here?" I heard myself say. I stood again, this time with some composure. The room around me flashed red; I got a headache and held my face in pain.

**Memory organization failure, subject unrestrained, suggesting immediate ejection.**

The words screamed in my head, flashing wildly before my eyes. My brain was frying, I couldn't think…

**Memory has become unstable, interference detected from host, switching to free roam.**

The redness throbbed and was gone; I felt like a vice had just been removed from my head. I broke down onto my bed, body crashing into mishmash underneath the non-existent sheets.

Memories flowed through me like blood. This was my room, I was seventeen, I was Gordon Truth, Ace High School Student and nothing more.

"Are you getting dressed, honey?"

A call from downstairs, my blood told me it was my mother. My adoptive mother.

My instincts drove my body into climbing into some decent clothing I found in my dresser. I walked to the bathroom and brushed my teeth. It was minty, I didn't feel minty, but my mind and blood told me it was so.

My mirror, bathroom mirror. My mind danced and phased back and forth… Mirror, mirror on the wall; who is the most confused teenage boy of all?

I stared back at myself, but something was wrong. My jaw wasn't as pushed forward, my face wasn't as long, my hair was bigger, split ends cheerfully erect. I was also shorter, only slightly.

Is this normal? My brain fought with these conflicting thoughts. Was I somehow back to my teenage years?

Was I even back at all?

Strange memories flashed before me. Graduating law school? A defense attorney? Fighting with prosecutor Mike Angelo?

No, that wasn't right. Mike Angelo wanted to be a painter. I should know, we're best friends at school… Why would I go to law school? Bleh, who wants to be some slimy attorney? I'm going to Hollywood after graduation, going to become an Oscar winning actor…

"You're breakfast isn't going to eat itself, Gordy!"

That was a funny thought; I pictured a waffle with teeth trying quite desperately to snap at its tail, covered in syrup.

Running downstairs, I felt the cool, rough carpet against my socks, the air flowing through my too-long hair.

This was real life; it must have just been a dream or something… all that lawyer stuff. Was there a test today? Or wait… was this a Friday? What date was it? I knew it was October…

I barely noticed a red flash in the corner of my eye. It flowed in front of me for a split second, my mind quickly forgetting it.

**Memory organization success, host restrained, linear memory progression initializing…**

--

Miles Edgeworth stroked his goatee. He checked his watch; looked over his shoulder for a chair, did not find one, and continued standing. On the other side of the one-way glass window sat Roger Watcher, aviator hat and goggles still astride his wise white hair. Edgeworth plucked a button in front of him.

"Terry Scours, is it? I think that is quite enough confrontation. Why not let our guest relax for a minute before pressing on?"

Inside the room, along with the aged old man; stood a slightly balding middle aged detective with glasses so thick his eyes were practically invisible. His skinny arms stretched along the table where his suspect sat, angry sweat forming on his face under the intense light.

"I'll come back to you. Thanks your stars it won't be soon."

He heaved his briefcase and walked out of the interrogation room, not quite shutting but not quite slamming the door behind him. Edgeworth looked him in the reflecting gaze of his eyes and grunted.

"Anything?"

Terry wiped his face. "Nothing yet. He refuses to talk. He just looks down, not saying a word. Hell, the man even cried a few times."

"Cried?"

"If you can believe that coming from a damned murderer."

Miles was troubled. Murderers don't usually cry, not unless it was him questioning them on the stand. He placed his fist on a small counter spreading out from the wall. "How sure are you of this man's guilt?"

Terry's eyebrows bent behind his large lenses. "Are you kidding me? Half the city saw him shoot that gun. I was there, pretty much behind the guy. The judge saw it, the jury saw it, the god damned prosecutor couldn't stop staring…"

Not usually was one of Edgeworth's cases so obviously open and shut. He shook his head, trials were never this simple, there was something hidden here.

"Would you like some coffee, Mr. Scours?"

Mike Angelo came through the door; two coffees in hand, one half-empty one in the other.

"Hazelnut for the good detective, Orange Mix for the celebrity."

"Thanks you Michael." Edgeworth took his cup. "You haven't, by any chance, brought along with you a foldable chair?"

Mike humored his friend and checked his back pockets. "Sorry, don't have one on me."

"A shame," Miles eyed the floor with envy. No prosecutor of his stature sits on the ground. Shouldn't they have somewhere to rest one's back in this accursed room?

"So, how goes the questioning?" Mike said.

"Not well," answered Terry, quietly sipping his coffee, "haven't got a word out of him. It's not as if it really matters. It's obvious he's the killer; according of hundreds of witnesses who were at the courthouse that day. Which includes you and me, Mike," he said, nodding to the slightly troubled prosecutor.

Mike's concentration faltered. He was standing at his desk weeks ago, ready to examine Gordon's witness, the defendant. A shot rang out, Mike ducked with terror in his eyes. As he slowly brought his face up to face the sound, he found an old grey-haired man, aviator's cap astride, a gun in hand, a tear on his cheek. The same scene he had seen every night since.

He coughed, forcing his mind to remain in the present. "So, Miles," he began, an aching in his throat momentarily interrupting him, "any word on a defense attorney?"

That was a topic the famed prosecutor did not wish to discuss. He had been told about an hour before, the name striking him as painfully familiar and infuriatingly obscure.

"Simon Hammer." He spat, almost in hatred.

Mike raised his eyebrows. "Huh, not taking any risks with this one. I've heard of Simon Hammer, son of Jack Hammer, right? Notorious defense attorney?"

Miles looked to his side to hide his pained expression. His relationship with Simon Hammer's father was not something that had come up in his many conversations with Mr. Angelo. Yanni Yogi, his father's death, Von Karma, that boat, the gun. He released the tension in his shoulders, now was not the time to dwell on past sins.

"If we could get him to say something, anything…" Terry turned his back and began pacing. "If only we could get a possible motive… so far, that's the only thing we don't know."

Miles twitched his fingers on the wall behind him. _I really need to sit down… Where the hell are the chairs?_ "Look, I'm enjoying the teamwork between us as much as any of you, but we are not getting anywhere by simply standing here." He eyed the chair on the other side of the suspect at the interrogation desk. He approached the window, deep in thought. "I am going to question him."

Terry almost dropped his coffee. "Sir?"

Edgeworth turned, "you had your chance Mr. Scours. I may be a prosecutor, but I've done my fair share of investigating."

The sudden visage of a young girl with a large key through her hair blinded Miles. Her chuckle, her smooth voice that was somehow loud and quiet at the same time. He shook the image away, nothing more than old news that wasn't relevant.

Terry shook his head. "I'm not sure…"

This was going nowhere fast, Mike stepped forward and snapped his fingers in front of the detective's face. "Give him five minutes. Five and that's all," he said, eyes fixed on the glasses.

Terry seemed at loss for words; finally, he threw up his hands and muttered. "Fine."

Edgeworth looked to Mike and nodded with a smile. He quickly entered the room, resting his aching back against the cold metal of the interrogation chair.

"That's more like it."

The old gentleman did not look up, if he even knew he had a new questioner he did not acknowledge it.

Miles straightened in his chair, arms folded across his ruffly white chest piece. "You are going to jail for a long, long time Roger Watcher."

Nothing, but that was fine. Edgeworth was not expecting a response yet.

He cleared his throat and leaned forward very slightly. "If anything, I just want you to look at me. Look at me while I tell you what exactly you are headed for if you do not cooperate."

There was a change in the suspect's demeanor. Roger bit his lip and held his hand to his aviation cap.

"Look at me Roger. Where is that proud Air Force Veteran?"

Apparently, he wasn't here right now. Roger remained still, if a bit more withdrawn. Miles tightened the grip of his arms across his chest. This really seemed impossible.

Without much other choice of what to do, he began to speak again, this time in another language that he had learned as a small boy.

"Herr Watcher, Ich wollst du bitte mit mir gesproct."

The words burned his tongue like the fire escaping the mouth of a dragon. German reminded him too much of his tortured days in another land, separated from his family and friends living with a man whose only wish was to see him rot in prison for a crime he didn't commit.

The words were broken, not grammatically correct. He only learned so much.

"Was?"

Roger slowly writhed his head to face his questioner. "Was sprecken sie?"

This time Terry did drop his coffee.

Mike held his mouth shut before a laugh escaped. A silent suspect, finally given a voice through a completely different language? What a catch, he was floored.

Miles' eyes flew open wide. "You speak German Mr. Watcher?"

Roger opened his mouth, nothing coming out. The light flickered above them, casting strange shadows on the suspect's cap.

"I-I picked it up overseas…" Roger seemed vulnerable, frightened, at the thought of himself speaking. His voice did not sound like his own; it was squeakier and sharp.

Edgeworth shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Mr. Watcher. If you say nothing to your immediate defense, we can do nothing for you. You need to tell me why you killed that girl in the courtroom."

The old man spun his head around the room, looking through the windows on both sides. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather wait for my attorney…"

"Objection!"

Miles threw his hand onto the table, violently rattling the uneven legs. He was standing, glaring at his victim from high. "The man assigned to your council is not interested in your personal wellbeing. You must tell me, you must. Who did you do this for? A man like you would never have killed that girl, but you did. And now you are going to tell me why."

Roger grasped his hat, squeezing it into his scalp, eyes watering in conflict. "I can't… I just…"

Behind the window, Mike had a violent thought. The expression on his face… it was the same exact expression on Raley Vian before she took her last breath.

"You either tell me or you tell your executioner."

Roger looked into Edgeworth's steely gaze, his focus and fortitude breaking under the intense heat, the bright lights invading his sight, the cold metal chair and chains on his arms…

"NYM, they were going to kill me and my wife. My children, my grandchildren. My son just had a new baby, Jeffery… Do you have children? You can't understand... I can't, I can't let anyone near them…"

He held his head and swayed, confused and betrayed tears falling onto the table and becoming steam under the horrific glass sun.

Edgeworth had heard more than enough. He opened the door once more and breathed a troubled sigh.

"This is going to be a problem."


End file.
